The Beckoning
by Gwen Brunye
Summary: The house has a need - and it's not for two teenagers in love.
1. Chapter 1

Violet on top is his favorite position. He loves the way she looks in the soft light of their bedroom, her porcelain skin glowing. She'd worried to him about her breasts being too small, but he thinks they're perfect, pert and just enough of a handful, with sweet pink nipples that call to him. He answers with soft lips and a grateful tongue. He loves the little whimpers she makes when he suckles her. She's still shy when she's on top. That turns him on, too.

He places his hands on her hips and helps her find a rhythm. Her body reveals more to him than her face allows. Her sex, silky wet, grips his cock eagerly. She avoids looking at his face. She hides behind a curtain of her hair, and when he pushes it away, she turns her head. He knows well enough that Violet does not like losing control. She tries so hard to be tough, acting so self-assured, over-bored, guarding her fear and insecurity behind her anger. He loves that he can disarm her this way.

He thrusts up inside her and she gasps, her grip tightening on his shoulders. He does it again and watches her face change, her eyes close to focus on the sensations they are creating together. He holds her hips down and rides up into her, hard, until she's bouncing recklessly, her head falling back. She grips his wrists, attempting to take back the reins, but he knows she wants this, wants him to make her come. Oh, he wants to see her come, he wants to see her face open, unguarded, pure, and amazed. He wants to bring her to that place.

"Tate...Tate...Tate!" she cries, he pushes into her, deeper, reaching..."Tate...Tate..." She's there. He watches her mouth fall open to release a silent cry as her sex gushes and pulses around him.

When it's over, she pauses, shudders. He's close now himself and he nudges her with his hips. She comes back to him then and begins to move. He closes his eyes, relishing the rush of her warm juices, slicking his cock.

Suddenly, her pulsing stops. He opens his eyes.

"Did you hear that?" she whispers. She's looking at him for the first time.

"No."

"Shh! Listen."

He allows for a brief moment of stillness and pushes up into her again.

"Wait!" she gasps. She turns her head towards the door. A thump emanates from somewhere deep in the house. "There it is again."

Tate moans, his cock pulsing, so close to release. "It's just one of the others" he rasps, trying to coax her hips back into motion. Probably those tw – "

A deeper, louder thump interrupts him.

"What the hell?" she says.

He can't lose her to this. He's so close.

"Don't worry, Vi. It's probably just some dumb kids trying to break in."

"Break in?"

"Yeah."

He doesn't actually care who or what the fuck it is, he just needs her to keep – moving- her –

"Why are they trying to break in?"

_There_. She's rocking him again, her hips absently following his guiding hands.

"Because they've heard the place is haunted," he says. _That's it, that's it, like that.._.

"A lot of my parents' stuff is still here. They could – " _Just…keep…like…that…_

He puts a hand up to cup her breast. "Shhh... It's nothing Vi," he whispers, stroking her soft skin, lightly pinching the nipple. "I'm sure of it." _I'm sure I'm about to explode so hard into you._

She pushes his hand away.

"Well, can you go down and see?"

"Go _down_ and _see_?"

"Yes! Tate!"

He plunges desperately into her again. She brings her hands down flat on his chest to still him.

"Come on, stop. I'm serious."

"Violet, are you trying to kill me?"

She lifts herself up, cruelly releasing his cock from her wet hot sheath.

"Sorry. Too late for that," she answers with a sly grin. He groans miserably, his cock aching for release. She grabs her dress from the chair.

"What are you _doing_?"

"Getting dressed."

"Violet, we're invisible! And, Jesus, we're kind of in the middle of something here."

She tosses a pillow at his head.

"Those noises are freaking me out. Don't be a dick!"

"See, it's just that it's all _about _my dick right now," he says, not able to hide his frustration.

She pauses to note his discomfort. She smoothes down her dress and reaches out a hand to stroke his curls. "Sorry about that," she says guiltily. "I'll make it up to you.:

"Yeah, whatever. Nevermind."

"I just – "This time a pounding, like a giant, angry fist against metal shatters the stillness. Violet looks at him pleadingly.

"Alright," he sighs, wincing a bit as he sits up. He can't resist that look in her eyes, the one that lets him know she _needs_ him. "Let's go check it out."


	2. Cold Comfort

She tosses his boxer shorts and jeans to him. He rolls his eyes and slides them on, delicately, over his still swollen sex. "It's probably just some kids trying to freak themselves out."

She follows him out of the room.

"Has that happened before?" she whispers, even though she wouldn't be heard. She's always forgetting.

"All the time."

"What did you do?"

"I'd scare the shit out of them..." he says. "Of course I wasn't in the middle of fucking my girlfriend those other times," he says wryly.

Violet smiles at the word "girlfriend". She suddenly remembers that she is sixteen and he's seventeen and they've really only been together for a few weeks. Eternity definitely screws with your sense of time.

He leads the way through the dark upstairs hall. She stays close behind him partly because she feels nervous, but mostly because she likes to be near his naked skin. He's still breathing heavily from their interrupted romp on the bed. At the top of the stairs he pauses, listens. It is only the sound of their breathing.

"Okay – I don't hear anything. Let's go back to the – " He turns, but Violet takes his arm.

"Tate, just go down and check for me. Please?"

He gives her a withering look, his blonde hair falling into his eyes. Just then a loud bang jolts her into his arms. He wraps them around her. "Shhhh.." he whispers. She can tell he's smiling at her skittishness. "Violet, it's okay." He strokes her hair to calm her.

She remembers that day in the attic, before she knew she was dead, Beauregard bursting from the shadows shouting, "Play!" She screamed in terror, only to fall against the wall of Tate's chest. She'd screamed again – not knowing until she swirled around that it was the boy who could manage, somehow, to explain the twisted logic of that house. She fell into his arms, tired of pretending she wasn't afraid, that she wasn't overwhelmed by the strange sensation that kept gnawing at her – that something wasn't quite _right_.

In his arms then, as in his arms now, she tried to accept his simple words, "It's okay." It really wasn't. And she didn't know if he really believed it, but together they could pretend.

They head down the stairs, Tate leading the way.


	3. The Need

"If it's those fucking twins, I'll snap their scrawny, freckled necks," Tate growls, a dull ache lingering in his groin. The twins used to try to win his attention and he tried to play the big-brother role with them for a while, but they were just too goddamned annoying. They've retaliated against his rejection with stupid kid pranks. But they know if they go too far he'll sick Thaddeus on them.

"I don't think it was the twins, Tate," Violet says, still in a whisper, which makes him smile. "The sound was.…big. Kind of…I don't know, angry. It was..." She wants to say_ menacing_. She wants to say _evil_.

"I don't see anything," Tate says. They've walked through the kitchen, the library, peeked into her father's study, guest room, the bathroom. All the windows are intact, furniture in their places, nothing disturbed or broken. Then they hear a long, grating creak. When they step back into the hallway, they see the door to the basement opening.

Somehow, but she can't explain how, she knows it's opening for Tate.

She looks at him and sees by his eyes, dark and hard now as he stares, and by the sudden tensing of his muscles, that he knows it, too.

Violet looks again at the yawning entrance to the deepest and darkest level of the house. The noises have stopped. In fact, the silence is complete. Violet wonders if her ears have suddenly closed up. She cannot hear a sound.

She feels strongly that someone or some _thing _iswaiting. Tate must feel the pull of it, too, because his muscles are straining to keep him where he stands.

She wants to get in the way of it. She wants Tate's eyes to fill with her, not the horrible blankness that has suddenly shadowed them. Whatever this is that has Tate in it's grip has trapped him for a long time now. She realizes then, helplessly, that she is no match for the force that is calling to him.

While she wants to move to Tate, touch him, wrap her body around him like a shield, she feels an angry push, and she stumbles back. Tate does not turn. He is frozen in his place. She watches him, his nostrils flaring with his hard breath. She wants to say his name, but when she tries for her voice, it's gone.

_Don't go. Don't go_. Is all she can think. She fills her head with those words, straining to make him feel her silent command. She wants to win this. She _needs_ to win this. That boy standing there in the doorway can be good. He can be kind. She knows how to make his eyes come to life.

But the darkness is strong and the battles she fought before were the silly, stupid struggles of the living. This – this is death. She doesn't know how to fight it, and as she stands there, she begins to feel it, the beckoning.

It is rushing at her, like an undertow, pulling. She's falling under. And it's just so easy to slide - down, down, so far down and release everything to it. Yes, it's just so fucking easy. Tate knows. He's always known. And now they can truly be together. See? There's Tate. And she is here with him, side by side. He's got his arm around her. He is smiling. Of course he knew not to fight. With the lights out, it's less dangerous.

"Here we are now..." says the darkness, "entertain us."


	4. Why She Tastes

Violet laughs and escapes Tate's embrace. She's down the stairs in a flash, smacking the concrete foundation with her feet. She runs into the shadows as Tate chases. She darts through a doorway and another.

She's blind, but the voices hiss and howl her name. She follows. Her hand trails along the stone wall. The voices tease and trick her, always just around the bend.

She scurries into the depths of the house. What a labyrinth it is! She feels the pull in her core, like when she's close to coming. She's almost there, she can feel it, so sharp and sweet –

"Violet!"

Tate's arms stretch out of the darkness to snatch her. She gasps as her feet leave the floor. He's pulling her back! She punches and kicks. The voices are hands now, long reaching fingers, she stretches, yearning to escape.

She's there, almost there, and when she gets there she'll rest. She can sleep...

Tate's fingers invade her mouth, thrust hard against her tongue. Her throat convulses and she gags. His grip on her loosens. She stumbles and scrambles just out of his reach.

She runs until she knows he's lost her, hugs the wall to steady her breath. In the room is a tiny casket. She ventures closer to see.

"Have you ever seen a baby coffin?"

Another Violet, all attitude and porkpie hat and cigarette, smiles at her sideways. "You like Tate?" she asks. "He's cool and he's pissy and he hates everyone and everything." She takes a long drag, exhales languidly. "But he really likes you," she says, flicking the ash. "You're lucky like that."

A gloved hand reaches smoothly around her, snakes down between her thighs. Another slides around to grasp her throat. The glove feels slick and cool against her skin. The fingers stroke her cunt steady and slow.

"I want to – "

He's above her, mute in the mask so slick and tight. She moans when he pushes in hard and deep. His length fills her with sensations bitter and sweet. The seamless line of his black second skin feels deliciously smooth against her thighs. The heat in her core builds, a flame ignites.

She is rising into the flames, licking at the dark. She bursts into a million bright sparks and then she is smoke and shadow,

falling ash.

_The darkness, it has me._

"Open your eyes."

She's standing tall, a heavy weight in her hands. She looks down. It's a shotgun. The hands holding the gun are calloused, strong. Her feet are squarely planted in heavy black boots. She knows there is more ammunition in the pockets of her coat.

A girl crouches in the corner. Blood trickles from her wrists. Violet knows what to do. The sureness of it surges through her like a jolt.

She lifts the gun to her shoulder. There is a shout from behind. The voice sounds familiar, but too far away. She pulls the trigger. The white-hot pain ignites in her chest.

She falls back, arms outstretched, like flying.

When she lands, Tate is there, above her.

"Why did you do it?" he asks.

She wants to tell him. She wants him to know, but the blood, so thick and warm, is flooding her lungs and her throat. She pushes him back until she's lying above him. She presses the heat of her wounds to his chest.

He understands now why she tastes. The pain, the blood, it makes her smile. As their bodies entwine it's hard to tell which one is the devil's child.

Maybe it's neither, maybe it's both. Whatever, nevermind.

Their bodies smolder. The embers' light reflects in their eyes. It's their challenge to the darkness,

a denial.


End file.
